The Dominican Republic
When I was about 17, my mum and I took one of those cheap package breaks to the Dominican Republic. Seven days of all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink. Not normally my type of holiday, and thanks to this experience, it probably never will be.

We got to the room, a "garden view", which meant it overlooked a few bushes and the resort's informal rubbish tip. Air conditioner didn't work properly, but made up for it with the amount of noise it produced. The first time I sat on my bed, a leg snapped off: although the housekeeping staff claimed it would be fixed, it remained broken throughout our stay, and I had to share a bed with my mother, who is a chronic snorer of impressive volume.

As far as the all-you-can drink bit goes, I firmly believe that they just waived the bottles of spirits over the mixed drinks, because they had absolutely no taste of alcohol whatsoever. (I probably shouldn't have been drinking anyway, but they gave me an adult wristband, and I wasn't about to complain.) The food seemed okay, or so I thought until I collapsed at the pool one day, struck down by food poisoning. Two people had to load me into a golf cart, take me back to my room, and put me to bed. That didn't last long, as I spent the following two days drifting in and out of consciousness on the bathroom floor, emptying every scrap of material in my digestive system from both ends. At least I got a break from sharing a bed with my mother. When I finally rallied, I found a lovely tile pattern imprinted on my face and most of my body.

Cheap Carribbean package holidays: just don't.
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:46, Reply)